


shall go freely

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [12]
Category: Merlin (TV), The Little Mermaid - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - The Little Mermaid Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fairytale Fusion, Fusion, Hurt/Comfort, Little Mermaid Elements, M/M, Mute Merlin, Muteness, Mutual Pining, Oblivious!Arthur, Pining, merman!Merlin, remix eligible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4590747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin rescues Arthur chiefly out of curiosity. </p><p>A Merlin/Little Mermaid fusion. Inspired by this <a href="http://makototachibana.tumblr.com/post/47739911771/merlin-au-merlin-emrys-the-youngest-prince-of">tumblr</a> post.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kraykraykat55](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kraykraykat55/gifts).



> For kraykraykat55, whose many wonderful comments inspired me to finally drag my muse out of mothballs and get this finished. Fucking finally. Thank you!

 

 

His eyes are not the colour of the sea but of the sky, which to Merlin is far more distant and mysterious, but his hair is the colour of toetoe in summer, and of dried flax, and of the sand that stretches up out of the sea to the land beyond, and it is this which Merlin finds the most intriguing. Merlin has always wanted to see the world that lies over the ridge, the place where Prince Arthur comes from. He has a cavern full of oddities salvaged from the shipwrecks and sailors of the Kingdom of Camelot, and he keeps them close on his island like precious treasures. Arthur is the prize of his collection.

 

 

*

 

 

Merlin rescues Arthur chiefly out of curiosity. When he falls into the water, knocked loose by the force of the raging storm, Merlin follows him down into the depths like a child might follow a sinking coin. Arthur is unconscious; he cannot save himself. Merlin is obliged to drag him back to the surface, and, finding it near impossible to keep him there without assistance, concludes that creatures with two legs belong on land, and therefore takes him to his cavern where he keeps the other pieces of shiny bric-a-brac that have caught his attention over the years. The tide is in, and high because of the weather, but there is a truncated half moon of sand at the apex of the cave, so that is where he deposits his prince. Arthur does not stir. Merlin waits, patient, receding as the water recedes, until he can no longer tell whether or not Arthur has opened his eyes.

 

 

* 

 

 

In the end, it is daybreak before Prince Arthur wakes. He stands on the fingernail of beach, his half-drowned garments growing stiff with salt as they dry, and shouts at the echoes for a long time.

 

Merlin has played this game sometimes, when Will is away and Freya is busy and he gets bored or lonely by himself, so he adds his voice to the chorus of reverberations. After a moment, Prince Arthur stops playing abruptly, listens, and then shakes his head.

 

“There’s nobody there,” he says.

 

Merlin is aware of this, so he does not reply.

 

 

*

 

 

Prince Arthur eats fish. Merlin would find this disturbing, except that he also eats fish, sometimes, the slow ones or the littlest ones that dart by him when he feels hungry. Mostly he lives on plankton and seaweed, however, because Freya tells him it isn’t nice to eat her friends. She is mostly joking, but Merlin refrains from eating them anyway. He doesn’t like the way they stare at him with their round, bulbous eyes, or the way their scales stick in his teeth when he chews.

 

Arthur, however, has a curious habit of catching fish and then stripping the good parts from them — bones and scales and eyes and all — before eating only the rude flesh after he has turned it black by holding it out over a miniature sun. Arthur has magical powers. Merlin is not surprised. Merlin helps him by shepherding the fattest-looking fish towards the strange contraptions he has set up to ensnare them, and once even threads a metal spike through the tail of one himself, when he dares to get close enough. Arthur has been using Merlin’s other treasures as tools, which Merlin doesn’t mind too much because it means he gets to find out what they are for. Arthur can make them work much better than he can, but this too does not surprise him. They are not built for webbed hands to use.

 

 

*

 

 

On the second day, Prince Arthur finds his way out of the cave. Merlin doesn’t see how he does it — he is away, chasing fish, collecting the scraps of Arthur’s ship from the shoals — but when he comes back with his new trinkets, Arthur is gone, and there are only footprints on the beach to show that he was ever there.

 

Merlin’s island is a small one, within sight of the shore but only just, but even so it takes him some time before he finds the prince. Arthur has removed his clothes and is lying on the sand, leaving his body exposed to the sun, and Merlin watches him from a distance, his eyes burning with the excess of oxygen; or perhaps it is merely the colour of the light on Arthur’s skin that blinds him, dazzling as sunshine through water on a calm day. Arthur stays that way for hours, sprawled, careless. There is a pile of empty shells next to him, and he has one hand curled across his chest. Soon the tide is high enough that Merlin, feeling daring, can creep in close and splash cold water on him with a mighty flick of his tail.

 

Arthur sits up with a yell, and Merlin laughs and laughs as he darts away back into deep water.

 

 

*

 

 

“You can’t just keep him there,” Freya says, when Merlin tells her about Arthur. “What about his family, his friends? His people will be missing him.”

 

Merlin knows about duty and what it means to be a prince from his father, who is one, but there are so many elongated and twisting branches to the merfolk’s royal family tree, and there are so very many princes and princesses that it has never seemed to matter very much. Freya tells him that humans are different.

 

“Arthur is very important to them,” she says. “He can’t live on your island forever.”

 

“But I want him to,” Merlin says, as if this settles everything.

 

 

* 

 

 

Arthur is building something. When Merlin isn’t busy playing with Freya, or Will, or secretly stockpiling shiny things he thinks Arthur might like, he watches as Arthur rolls logs onto the beach and lashes them there with scraps of the rope that Merlin has collected. Arthur sleeps in the cave every night, like he has since Merlin saved him from the sea, but now when he dreams there is a determined notch in his forehead and his mouth is frowning as if he is unhappy. Merlin brings him more baubles: another three-pronged object like the one he used to catch his fish, a net, torn in three places, once a knife with a sharp edge that he made himself from whalebone. Arthur receives these presents with confused gratitude, and more than once looks out at the ocean unexpectedly, as if he’s trying to catch Merlin unawares. Merlin is too quick for him, of course, but he wonders — wonders what it would be like if he were to be too slow, just the one time, if he were to let Arthur _see_.

 

 

* 

 

 

Arthur’s new plaything is not a boat, Freya tells him, but a raft, which serves the same function but is much more dangerous. Freya likes to swim close to the docks sometimes, so she knows a lot about boats, and people. She thinks he is trying to leave.

 

“He can’t _leave_ ,” Merlin says. “Where would he go?”

 

“Home,” Freya says. “I heard some of them talking the other day. They’re looking for him. They think he’s drowned, but the King refuses to give up hope.”

 

Arthur continues to build his raft in ignorance of Merlin’s distress. That night, Merlin waits for the water to rise and drags himself up the sand to where the raft lies, still unfinished, and picks apart the knots Arthur has so painstakingly tied. He doesn’t manage to finish them all before the sky begins to lighten in the east, and he is forced to return to the water, but he thinks perhaps he has done enough, so that Arthur will not be able to leave today, or tomorrow either.

 

 

*

 

 

In the morning, when Arthur sees what Merlin has done, the prince sinks to his knees in the sand and bows his head, and Merlin feels as if he has been skewered low in his belly, like one of Arthur’s fish. He brings him a conch shell that night in apology, but Arthur doesn’t even glance at it in the morning; just goes straight back to work.

 

 

*

 

 

Arthur rebuilds the raft higher up the beach, further from the water-line, so that Merlin can only see his back and the gold of his hair as he works even harder than before. He watches anyway, the flex and curve of Arthur’s spine as he bends, and he wants. He wants, he wants. But he does not know what it is that he wants, and so he waits.

 

 

* 

 

 

When Arthur sets sail for the mainland, Merlin follows him, and can see at once that this will never work. Arthur has an oar, of sorts, and a rudder, but the current is against him and there is no wind, and the waves keep driving him back, back onto the island’s beach, no matter how hard he paddles or how fiercely he shouts.

 

Merlin thinks of the notch in Arthur’s forehead, and the storm-clouds that cross his clear blue eyes. He thinks of the colour of Arthur’s hair in the sun, more precious than spun gold, and the way his skin shines when uncovered the way metals do.

 

He swims up beneath the raft and ties a length of seaweed to the ropes beneath it, then wraps the seaweed around his waist. Towing Arthur along makes his muscles ache, squeezes his gills and makes him lose his breath, but it is worth it for the puzzled, delighted smile he can see on Arthur’s face through the water, and the way the breeze makes his clothing billow as he moves.

 

 

* 

 

 

On the shore, safe and standing in the fast-fading light, Prince Arthur turns towards the ocean and raises one hand in a tentative farewell.

 

“Thank you,” he says, and Merlin hears him. “I won’t forget this.”

 

 

*

 

 

Merlin does not forget, either.

 

 

*

 

 

Morgana the Sea Witch lives in the darkest part of the ocean, somewhere Merlin never goes. Nevertheless, she doesn’t seem surprised when he comes visiting.

 

“You’ve come for my help, I take it,” she says, when Merlin hesitates at the entrance to the crevasse she calls home. “Tell me what you need, and you shall have it, but only if you’re willing to pay the price.”

 

“There’s a boy,” Merlin says, and falters.

 

“My darling, there is always a boy,” Morgana says. Her long, dark hair swirls around her body, black as ink against her dead white skin. “Tell me, what is it you want? You have to actually say the words before I can help you.”

 

“I want to be human,” Merlin says. “I want him to fall in love with me.”

 

“The first is child’s play,” says the witch. “The second, you must do for yourself. Even I can’t help you with true love.”

 

“And the price?”

 

She eyes him shrewdly.

 

“Your voice,” she says. “A piece of your soul for a piece of your heart. If you can get the prince to confess his love for you within one year, you get them back, undamaged, and may live with the prince in his palace for the rest of your days. If not…well.”

 

She smiles, and it reminds Merlin of the gleam of the rocks by the cliff-edge before they batter you to pieces.

 

“If not, you’re mine for good.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Arthur must not find out. This much, Morgana tells him freely. If Arthur begins to suspect what Merlin is, he will kill him, because magical creatures are not permitted in Camelot. 

 

“Arthur will not know you,” she says. “You will have to win his heart through actions alone.”

 

“But how will he learn to love me if I cannot speak?”

 

Morgana shrugs her thin, white shoulders. “That is none of my concern,” she says, and hands Merlin the potion.

 

 

*

 

 

The transformation is terrible. Merlin screams and screams until he loses his voice, and then Morgana laughs at him as he chokes on seawater and his tail splits, and his chest fills with lungs instead of gills.

 

“Go swim with the sharks, my little fish,” she says, waving at him as he claws desperately towards the surface. “And don’t forget, you have one year!”

 

 

* 

 

 

They find him on the beach and bring him to a man called Gaius, who is supposed to be able to cure his muteness. 

 

“He was just wandering in the dunes, you say?” The old man asks, peering into Merlin’s ears and eyes and throat like he’s searching for answers. “And he hasn’t said a word since you found him?”

 

Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t think he can talk,” he says. “He was naked and, er, aroused when we found him, but he didn’t seem to know what to do with clothes when I handed some to him. Perhaps he’s simple.”

 

Merlin is not simple. Nothing here is. Gaius slaps his hand away from a complicated-looking object on the table-top and asks him if he can read or write. Merlin nods then shakes his head, and Gaius sighs.

 

“I’ll do what I can for him, sire,” he says. “But I can’t promise miracles.”

 

 

*

 

 

Gaius puts him to work in the infirmary, which is what the humans call the place where medicine is made. At first, this is a process which Merlin views with suspicion. Merfolk do not treat the sick. The injured either recover on their own or they do not. Humans are more fragile, however, and require greater and more tender nursing to recover their health. He thinks of Arthur on the beach, cutting his palm on a rough log, the bright, fresh bloom of blood on the sand, and begins to take a renewed interest in his studies. If nothing else, it allows him to move freely about the citadel, delivering potions and gathering herbs, which increases his chances of encountering the prince.

 

Arthur is always polite to him, but distant. Of course, he has no idea of their shared time on Merlin’s island; he has no idea what Merlin really is. Nevertheless, he seems distracted and aloof. Some days Merlin sees him only from a distance, sword drawn, frowning at a practice dummy as he feints and parries against an imaginary enemy. It is the first time Merlin has ever seen such things. He has seen Arthur swim, but this lithe grace is better even than that, and for the first time he becomes aware of the true differences between them. Arthur is a creature of the land, that much is certain, but Merlin has only ever been a child of the sea. 

 

 

*

 

 

When Merlin saves Arthur’s life for the second time, everything changes.

 

“A reward,” King Uther says, clapping a hand on Merlin’s shoulder that almost makes his knees buckle. “For saving my boy’s life. If you hadn’t pushed him out of the way of that dagger— ”

 

He stops, and Merlin considers that perhaps he has misjudged him. A tyrant Uther may be, but he cares about his son, and Merlin finds he cannot hold a grudge against anyone who has Arthur’s best interests at heart. 

 

“You will be his manservant,” Uther proclaims.

 

“Father!” Arthur protests. “He can’t even speak!”

 

“Then he won’t bother you with prattling,” Uther says, clearly not about to be gainsaid on the matter. “Didn’t you complain that Cedric talked too much?”

 

“And George too little,” Arthur retorts. “How can he do his job properly if he can’t communicate?”

 

“You’ll just have to teach him, then,” Uther says. And that is the end of the matter.

 

 

*

 

 

At first, Merlin is eager to please. He does everything Arthur tells him to, even when it seems pointless or impossible. This only appears to make Arthur angry. Eventually, after the third chamber pot has narrowly missed his head, Merlin understands. This is not some odd kind of friendship ritual. It is not a challenge for dominance. Arthur doesn’t want him here; doesn’t want anything to do with him. He wonders if it’s because he has no voice. Would Arthur want him if he could speak? Had Morgana deliberately taken away the only thing that would bring about what he most desired?

 

When Merlin drinks poison for the prince, it is almost as an afterthought. He has no way of warning Arthur about the goblet, or the treacherous king, so he snatches the cup from Arthur’s grasp and drinks it, desperate to communicate the danger the only way he knows how. He is not expecting it to burn in his gullet, fixing him in place like a spear to the gut. He is not expecting the way his fragile human lungs flail helplessly, crushed by a pressure that rivals the ocean, contracting until he cannot breathe. 

 

He has forgotten that he is human, too, and therefore breakable. It is not a pleasant way to be reminded.

 

 

*

 

 

 _Merlin_.

 

The voice that summons him is old and deep, as ancient as the stones themselves.

 

_Merlin._

 

He stirs. At once, there is a flurry of movement around him, and a hand takes hold of his wrist, fingers firm against the thud of his pulse.

 

“Is he awake?”

 

“I believe so – or he soon will be. Merlin, can you hear me?”

 

 _It is time, Merlin. Open your eyes and face your destiny_.

 

Merlin’s destiny is blond-haired and has worried eyes, even though his face is set. There are scrapes on his knuckles and blood on his wrists, and Merlin knows without asking who found him the antidote. 

 

Unthinking, Merlin touches Arthur’s cheek in a question. Arthur flinches. “Yes, I’m fine.” He pushes Merlin's hand away.

 

“You can understand him, sire?” Gaius asks, watching the exchange with interest.

 

Arthur looks back at Merlin, who waits with bated breath.

 

“No,” the prince says, shaking his head. “It was just an educated guess.”

 

 

* 

 

 

Arthur doesn’t exactly become less of a prat after that, but he does stop trying to chase Merlin away, and instead sets about teaching him to write. Merlin has always been a quick pupil, and he has an advantage in that he can already sort-of read the human script, in the same way that he can already mostly understand the human language. The prince is a surprisingly patient teacher, his hand-writing brisk and elegant on the slate board he uses to demonstrate the letters. Merlin copies him dutifully, basking in Arthur’s sparing words of praise, the surprised pleasure in his eyes when Merlin gets it right.

 

The best part, however, is their newfound conversation. Now that he can write, Merlin can _speak_ , albeit slowly and more clumsily than he is used to, and he wastes no time in telling Arthur what he thinks about the state of his chambers. The first time he makes Arthur laugh is better than anything Merlin could have imagined: it sounds like sunlight on a still day, glancing over the water, and he can't help wanting to hear it again.

 

He doesn’t tell Arthur that he loves him, but sometimes he thinks that Arthur might almost guess. After all, is it not obvious? But perhaps humans require certainty before they make the first move. Perhaps Arthur is waiting for a sign.

 

 

*

 

 

Courtship amongst the merfolk is a straightforward affair. There are gifts: small shells, shiny objects. There are declarations of intention. Merlin does not know how human courtship is supposed to work, so he falls back on what he knows best. 

 

“Merlin, did you leave this in my chambers?” Arthur asks, holding up a King’s Crown that Merlin had placed on his pillow the night before. It is tiny and perfectly formed, the inside worn smooth by the water, mottled with delicate colour. Arthur is holding it between thumb and forefinger and scowling as if it is a dirty rag.

 

When Merlin nods and smiles at him, expecting praise for the gift, Arthur merely rolls his eyes. “You got sand all over my pillows, you idiot,” he says. “I expect you to have them cleaned by lunch time, do you understand?”

 

Merlin makes the face that means, _you’re a prat_ , but Arthur pretends not to notice.

 

Arthur does not notice a lot of things.

 

 

*

 

 

The next gift is received with as much joy as the first: Arthur, it appears, cannot think why Merlin has given him a carving knife, especially one as rusted as this. He is angry about the stains on his pillows, and Merlin pouts, because he thinks Arthur is far too concerned with comfortable things. Far better, in his mind, to admire the elegant curve of the knife-handle, the way the metal dragon coils around the hilt and bares its teeth. But Arthur doesn’t see it.

 

And yet, he keeps the trinkets anyway. Merlin finds him once sitting by the window, running his fingers over the small collection. It is not as fine as Merlin’s hoard back on the island, it’s true, but there are some pieces Merlin is particularly proud of, even if Arthur has pooh-poohed them all. The prince turns them over each in his fingers, examining them, looking at the shells and baubles the same way he had looked at Merlin when he had tried to use a fork for a comb. 

 

That was before, back when Merlin knew nothing about the human world: he has improved since. But still Arthur stares at him strangely, as if Merlin has the answer to a puzzle he has often seen, yet never solved. 

 

 

* 

 

 

“Merlin, I need to talk to you,” Arthur says one day, and Merlin’s heart gives an extra beat in his chest. Does Arthur know? Has he figured it out? Is today the day he tells Merlin that he loves him?

 

Instead, Arthur draws him down to the courtyard, a place Merlin usually avoids as being too full of sights and smells to be comfortable. A woman is standing there on the white cobbles, her long, dark hair braided with jewels, her brown eyes kind as she looks at him. She is dressed like a princess, but she holds out a hand to Merlin as if he were a prince and not a lowly serving boy, and she curtseys when he smiles at her. 

 

“Mithian, I want you to meet my manservant, Merlin,” Arthur says, unaware that his announcement is about to destroy what remains of Merlin’s world. “Merlin, this is Princess Mithian of Nemeth. My future bride.”


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Merlin flees to the sea.

 

He is knee-deep in the ocean before he remembers he can no longer swim, and the salt spray stings his eyes. The sea is boiling today, slate-grey under a stormy sky, and Merlin wades out to the rocks where he used to play and climbs up on them, cutting his knees and hands on the sharp stones.

 

 _Morgana_ , he shouts wordlessly into the wind. _You tricked me!_

 

He isn’t expecting an answer, but she comes anyway, riding in on a wave of sea foam that clings to her slender form like a wedding gown.

 

“Why have you come back?” she asks, putting her arms around him. “Why are you crying?”

 

And so Merlin tells her, pressing his palms into hers and explaining his plight with the wordless speech that is the gift of all magical creatures. 

 

“Oh, little one,” Morgana says gently. “I'm sorry. But this is the way of princes and kings. You would be better off under the sea, with me.”

 

She holds him until the tears stop, and Merlin knows better than to trust her, but he is tired. Morgana is as harsh and merciless as the ocean she serves, but she is nurturing as well, and she can be playful. Merlin falls asleep in her arms, exhausted by grief, and dreams of sunlight on a shallow ocean floor, of the small fish that live in the coral, and of a sweet and sorrowful voice that is calling him home. 

 

 

*

 

 

When Merlin opens his eyes, Arthur is shaking him awake, soaked through and white with fury.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demands, but although his voice is angry his hands are not. He touches the smarting cuts on Merlin’s palms, turning them over in his, and grips his fingers hard. “You could have drowned, you idiot. You wouldn’t even have been able to call for help.”

 

 _I’m fine_ , Merlin wants to tell him, but without the slate and chalk he is reduced to dumb show and pantomime. It's no wonder Arthur could never love him. He gestures at himself to indicate the lack of injury, but Arthur just shakes his head. “You could have _drowned_.”

 

He bullies Merlin back to the castle and into a hot bath, which is confusing: why should Arthur insist on dragging him away from the sea, only to throw him in fresh water instead? But Merlin goes where he is bid, too sick and heartsore even to be curious. He lets Arthur wash the sand from his hair, the back of his neck. The water is so warm and the prince so gentle, yet he can’t stop shivering.

 

“Sometimes,” Arthur murmurs, so quietly Merlin probably isn’t supposed to hear. “When I touch you, it feels like…it’s almost like I can hear you talking.”  

 

It's almost as if he's asking a question. Merlin holds his breath. 

 

“It’s stupid, I know.” The prince laughs at himself, but his eyes are searching Merlin’s face. “You can’t speak. You probably don’t even understand half the things I say, and yet…” He swallows hard. “I could swear we’ve met before.”

 

Merlin stays very still. Arthur is looking at him and for a moment there is in his eyes a half moon circle of beach and a sandy shore, and Merlin is back in the water by his precious island, watching the prince lying nude on the sand and _wanting_. He knows the hooked shape of that desire, now, more bitter than the poison but impossible to give up.

 

Then Arthur blinks, and the moment is gone. He steps away, pulling a towel from atop the screen and chucking it carelessly in Merlin’s direction. “Come on,” he says gruffly. “Dry yourself off by the fire and get warm. It’s almost suppertime.”

 

 

*

 

 

Arthur has to have noticed that something is wrong, but he doesn’t ask and so Merlin doesn’t tell him. There are, in any case, preparations to make and visiting nobles to please, and Arthur is so busy with the forthcoming wedding that Merlin hardly sees him at all. 

 

Perhaps it won’t be so bad, he thinks, belonging to Morgana. It has to be better than this, haunting the corridors of the castle like a restless ghost, seeing Arthur draw further away from him with each passing breath. He watches the ocean all the time, now, wondering about Will and whether Freya misses him. The sea has always been his first, great love, and without Arthur there is nothing to keep him from it. When Arthur pledges his heart to another, the spell that gives him human form will be broken. One day, soon, Merlin will return. 

 

 

*

 

 

The night before the wedding, Merlin is undressing the prince for bed when Arthur stops him and takes hold of his wrists.

 

“You will always have a place here with me, Merlin,” he says, shaking Merlin’s arms a little in his urgency. “For as long as you wish it, Camelot will be your home. You don’t– you never have to leave, if you don’t want to.”

 

Merlin tries to smile to hide his sadness, tugging out of Arthur’s grip to make the sign for _thank you_. He follows it up with a wavy hand signal and a scrunched-up nose, like he’s not certain staying would be a kindness. Arthur huffs out a laugh, but he seems sad, too, his eyes following Merlin as he goes to snuff out the candle. There should have been more time, but the year is almost up, and there is a palpable sense of something ending.

 

“Merlin,” Arthur whispers in the dark, but whatever else he might have said is swallowed by a yawn, and then a sigh. Merlin closes the door and turns away. There is still time for him to uncover one last secret. 

 

 

*

 

 

Merlin does not like dragons. They are creatures of fire and air, at war with the creatures of the earth and the sea, but this one is a prisoner and very old, and Merlin knows too well what that feels like to be afraid.

 

 _“How small you are,_ ” the dragon says, “ _for such a great destiny_.”

 

Merlin cannot ask questions, but the dragon holds forth in any case. It has been centuries, Merlin guesses, since it has had anyone to speak to. 

 

“ _You were made to protect him. Do you not feel it? He has always been the other half of your coin; earth and water, courage and magic. With your help, he will become the greatest king Albion has ever known. You must keep him safe.”_

 

Safe, Merlin thinks, is a relative term; but he will ensure Arthur’s happiness, which amounts to much the same thing. _One last time_ , he tells the dragon, placing a palm on the scaly neck. _One last sacrifice_. 

 

 

*

 

 

In the morning, Merlin goes to the shore. Presumably he will feel it, when the fateful moment comes, and he will need to be near water when his gills return, but in any case there is comfort in the sound of the sea. 

 

He doesn’t want to imagine what is happening in the castle, but when he closes his eyes, all he can see is Arthur. Arthur, walking down the aisle in the Great Hall, stunned by the beauty of his lovely bride. Arthur, repeating the vows that will take him away from Merlin forever. Arthur, who is at this very moment...

 

…striding along the sand towards him, still in his wedding finery.

 

 _Arthur?_ Merlin mouths. _What are you doing here?_

 

Perhaps Arthur doesn’t understand, or perhaps he simply doesn’t wish to. He walks right up to Merlin and grips his tunic in both hands, his wild gaze searching Merlin’s own.

 

“Tell me it was you,” he says. “The shells, the trinkets – tell me you were the one who saved me.”

 

Merlin’s heart is in his throat. He nods. 

 

“You brought me back,” Arthur says, as if needing to be sure, “when the tide was against me? You kept me from drowning when I fell from the ship?”

 

Another nod. Arthur closes his eyes, leaning in to rest their foreheads together, and all Merlin can do is breathe. 

 

“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs. “I thought– I’d hoped– but the echoes, and you couldn’t speak. How could it be you?”

 

His hands are on Merlin’s waist, Merlin’s tangled in his hair, and anyway it’s too complicated to explain through gestures. Arthur is still talking. 

 

“And then I thought…I’ve heard stories–– the sailors used to say there were creatures in the deep, but I never…I didn’t dare believe they could be real.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s magic, isn’t it? That’s why you couldn’t tell me.”

 

Merlin nods again, and Arthur sighs, reeling him in still closer. His hands find their way to Merlin’s face, cupping his cheeks, his thumbs stroking away the tears falling unheeded from Merlin's eyes.

 

“I know I have no right to ask it,” he says in a quiet voice. “But please…Please don’t go back. I love you.”

 

 

*

 

 

The first thing Merlin says, after they finish kissing, is, “What about Mithian? I thought you were going to marry her?”

 

Arthur stares at him for a long moment, looking tousled and breathless, his thumb rubbing distractingly along Merlin’s lower lip. Merlin has no idea how humans are meant to continue functioning with so much conflicting input, especially when all the blood in his body seems to have centred in his reproductive organs. For merpeople, the coupling is much simpler; but then, there are fewer parts and far less pleasure involved.

 

It’s surprising how little he regrets leaving his other life behind, even though he knows Morgana will never forgive him.

 

“Your voice,” Arthur says finally, sounding a little dazed. “You can speak?”

 

“I can now.” Merlin smiles at him. “You broke the spell.”

 

Arthur shakes his head. “One day,” he says, “you’re going to tell me everything. But for now…” Another kiss, and Merlin melts, clinging shamelessly to Arthur’s broad shoulders. “I got to the Great Hall and I couldn’t do it,” the prince says, holding him tight. “I had to see you one last time. I had to know the truth.”

 

“I didn’t want to leave,” Merlin says, sounding small even to himself. “But I thought– even if you did feel for me, you love your kingdom more. And I knew you would never look at me once you married her.” 

 

“Perhaps you have too high an opinion of my selflessness,” Arthur breathes, burying his face in Merlin’s neck. “I could never let you go.” 

 

“Arthur,” Merlin says, testing the word in his newly recovered voice. “Oh, Arthur, I wouldn’t want you to.”

 

 

~FIN~


End file.
